Paul’s name was not Paul. The name on his driver’s license was Apollo. His parents, particularly his mother, were living more like Andy Warhol than Andy Griffith around the time of his birth. There was a lot of experimentation in their life. And seeing as they weren’t particularly engrossed in Greek or Roman mythology, Paul considered their choice to name an unremarkable suburban Caucasian baby “Apollo” to be the zenith of their quest to experiment.
He didn’t mind the name on it’s own. What he didn’t enjoy was the conversation that inevitably occurred when he had to give the back story to the rare individual who discovered his true identity. No, I’m not into the space program. No, I’m not a big fan of the Rocky movies. No, I don’t have a twin sister named Artemis.
“Paul” is not only a common name, but it is a legitimate shortening of Apollo. He had no ill will towards his parents. This modified moniker, in his mind, maintained an appropriate level of respect for them. Paul is a low-profile name, and it is one that he wished he would have adopted much earlier in life.
This is part 6 of the story. Read the beginning of River Apollo here.
Paul pulled up to the Lions Clubs building that hosts the monthly Trout Unlimited meetings. The Spring Meadow chapter had been going strong for nearly 30 years. The members had done some truly remarkable things for the protection and conservation of cold water resources over the decades. Many of the local creeks had been polluted, scoured, and channelized at some point in the past two centuries. The time and finances garnered to restore some of the region’s creeks was truly respectable.
These sentiments Paul played over and over in his mind as he shut off his engine and sat in his front seat. It was 6:58. He gave himself another minute and a half’s worth of a pep talk. Flies with honey, and all that, he thought.
Slipping in as the sound of a gavel pounded on a plastic folding table, he took a seat in the back row. A few people turned and nodded with the obligatory nod that men extend to one another in virtually all situations. Quickly surveying the room, Paul recognized about a third of the attendees. Most of the people he knew were the old-timers. There were also a couple of younger guys that he’d seen out on the water. One couldn’t have been over 25, and he was the youngest in the room by a decade. He was sitting in the second row, leg bouncing like he’d recently taken a pot of coffee in the vein.
Robert’s Rules and moderators and formal agendas were not in Paul’s wheelhouse. He knew this. He did his best not to play the part of the curmudgeonly fly fishing hermit that he could easily slip into if not for a modicum of self control. There was a place on the agenda, projected on the wall between the US and Lions’ flag, for habitat improvement updates. First there was a speaker sharing a slideshow of a recent trip to Iceland.
Paul had been to Iceland. It was as a teenager. He didn’t fish, but he remembered seeing the rivers and being taken by their rugged beauty. Picture after picture of hook-jawed brown trout stirred some wanderlust in him that hadn’t been jostled in ages. Maybe one day, he thought.
After the presentation, Gerry King got up and rattled off a list of logistical details. New members, fund balances, state and federal updates, etc. Then he moved into the portion of the meeting that Paul had been waiting for.
Now onto the upcoming habitat work on Fletcher’s Run. As you know, M&K Machinery is donating the use of heavy equipment and the manpower. They might even let me drive the backhoe!
Gerry’s quip got a smattering of laughter.
And we’ve also set aside money from the conservation fund to buy the gravel to drop along… switch the slide for me, will you Bill? To drop along this whole section of stream bottom.
Paul leaned forward in his chair, neck hot with frustration. It was the exact same stretch of stream that Carl Hybel and his project had fouled up 25 years prior. It would kill the spawning habitat. It would kill the bugs. It would foul things up for another decade. Paul was squirming in his seat as Gerry pointed and gesticulated about the access and their plans.
He had enough and stood up to interrupt when the young guy in the second row’s hand shot up. He leaned forward in his chair and, with hands folded together, began to speak slowly and clearly.
This is a huge mistake. With all respect, sir.
Paul slowly sat down.
One comment